What Time Cannot Heal
by Mibs Shadow
Summary: Twelve thousand years have passed since Maglor's exile, and at last it is time for him to come home.


They say time heals all wounds, yet even now I remember it as if it was only yesterday. The plumes of smoke from the burning boats of Alqualondë reaching to the sky like spindling fingers. Amrod's body, wreathed in flames, lying amidst the wreckage. The shining Silmaril, burning into my palm.

I had watched it slowly descend beneath the waves, the current pulling it farther from the shore. My father's blood coursed through me, and I was compelled to dive into the water and retrieve the Silmaril, for it was my father's creation and my heritage, and I had seeked it for many long years, but I stood still. That heritage was made void, if the festering burn on my palm was anything to go by, and the Silmaril had passed into Ulmo's domain.

Maedhros was gone. He had cast himself along with the Silmaril into the flames. I had watched him fall, and I realized I was the last. It had been many years since Fëanor fell, but not before leading us into a death trap. Few had any love for the sons of Fëanor and their quest, and even I had long come to regret our oath.

It was only by the order of Eönwë that we had made it this far at all. When we took the Silmarilli from the Maia's tent, a great alarm rippled through the camp, and we were surrounded in seconds. The two of us had stood back to back, surrounded by a legion of the finest soldiers in Arda, and we knew that at last our quest was at its end.

"Here it ends," I had said. "I am ready; I am weary of this quest."

"It may not end here," Maedhros had said in return. "We have our swords, and we have used them for far longer than the warriors of Eönwë. Greatly outnumbered we may be, but we may yet live to see the light of another day. Do not give up, Maglor, for we are strong and may withstand any trial the Valar put before us."

And we had prepared to go down fighting, for despite Maedhros' assurances I greatly doubted we stood a chance, but before the first strike could land Eönwë had emerged from his tent and bid his warriors to stand down and harm us not. We escaped, and our fates were delayed a little longer. Maedhros was embarrassed by the Maia's command, but I was grateful.

Maedhros had always been proud. He would sooner be consumed by flames than live without the Silmarilli, which he had devoted his life to obtaining. But in my eyes the situation was cast in a different light: I was the last of the line of Fëanor. The others existed only in memory, and for their deeds they were foul in the tales of Eldar and Edain alike. If I died, I too would pass on into memory.

Never alive would I be admitted to Valinor, and should I die perhaps even Lord Mandos would reject me. I had but one foreseeable choice: to remain on the shores of Middle Earth until the Valar permitted me to move on.

For many a year I dwelt in the woods just beyond Imladris. I slept in the high boughs of the trees, but the forests were cold and did not recognize my Noldo blood. I had never bonded with the trees of Beleriand as a Silva might, but the Eldar have always been able to hear the heartbeat of the forest. But whether by the Curse of Mandos or only the passing of many long years, I no longer could.

Many in Imladris and the surrounding settlements glimpsed me during my wanderings. Rumors arose of a tall figure cloaked in black who dwelled in the forests west of the mountains, elf-kind and yet not. On occasion I ventured into the towns of the Edain, which grew larger and more numerous as the years passed, but my first true encounter occurred in the early years of the Third Age, near the mountain pass leading into Imladris.

I had strayed near to the road to view the lush green valley spotted with glimmering dwellings. From the gates of Imladris rode a small group of five Elves, Lord Elrond at the front. I retreated into the forest, but when the party neared me he called out and they came to a halt.

The elf-lord dismounted and approached me. "Who are you, traveler, who lurks so near to Imladris?" he called.

I watched him, remembering the small elfling I found near the Havens of Sirion so many years before. Even then Elrond had been a promising child, not quite as stubborn or willful as his brother Elros, but full of spirit all the same.

I stepped out of the shadows, letting the light dapple on my face. Elrond scrutinized my face, trying to match it to one in his memory. I could tell he recognized me, and it was only a matter of time before he placed my face. I did not have much time. I had only the bad graces of the Valar, and associating with me now would only bring those bad graces onto him as well.

"I am no one," I said finally, pulling my hood over my head and stepping back into the shadows. "Only a memory."

The elf-lord stood still beside his horse, watching in silence as I disappeared into the woods once more.

That night, sitting at the base of an old oak tree, I took out my lyre and sang the Lament to Laurelin, a mellow melody I myself composed in the years before the Oath drove me away from my people. It was among Elrond's favorites as an elfling, one I would sing after the Sun descended over Aman in the West and the twins lay down to sleep. They were like any other children unwilling to surrender to the night, but my music would calm them. Perhaps on this night my music drifted down into the valley, and Elrond heard it and remembered.

Throughout the later years of the Third Age, Sauron's power grew stronger. I could feel his eye roaming the landscape, searching for something. The groups of roaming orcs became larger and more frequent. They raided towns and killed travelers. They kept their distance from Elven settlements, but I knew it was only a matter of time before they attacked.

And then, one day in the last few years of the second millennium of the Third Age, he found me. I was near Mithlond when I felt a malevolent mind probing mine, and in my mind's eye I saw a glowing lidless eye wreathed in fire, and knew that I was discovered.

 _The years have not treated you well, Maglor son of Fëanor,_ Sauron whispered in my mind. _I must admit to expecting you to be better...preserved_.

"Time will take its toll, but I shall endure," I said.

The Maia was quiet then, but I could feel his eye raking me up and down, piercing my skin and staring straight into my soul. _Your f_ _ëa is not that of a Noldo,_ he observed finally. _You have been sundered from your kin._

"The Valar may have deemed me a Noldo no longer," I said, "and though I may never again stand among them, of the Eldar I shall be until Mandos takes me."

The intensity of Sauron's gaze lessened as his eye began to move away. I was not worth his attention. I was only a fading relic of an age long past.

 _You are no one_ _,_ he whispered mockingly. _Not even a memory._

The Fourth Age came and passed, and the last of my people departed into the West. The kingdoms of Men rose and fell, each built upon the ashes of its predecessors. With each year I faded until I was only a shadow of the Noldo I once was. But I clung to my last shred of purpose until it seemed I existed only to bear the weight of the world.

I roamed the coasts, remaining always near to the sea, every morning gazing out over the waters, striving to see the silver spires of Valinor that I knew lay somewhere beyond the coast. But I saw nothing. I roamed restlessly, never staying in one place more than a few weeks.

Years turned into decades, which turned into centuries. The seaside communities became more wary of me, for I was a nameless wanderer spoken of in stories told to them by their grandparents. I withdrew from society, and wandered along the shores, singing laments in languages long forgotten. Music was the only thing that brought me joy. Only it could give color to the towering smokestacks and grey skies.

I had no purpose, but my years would not end until the Valar permitted it. But with the rise of Men they had all but forsaken the mortal lands.

There came a day when I could not rise, but only knelt on the shore, the water lapping at my knees as I gazed over the waves. I heard no one approach, but for the first time since the departure of the Eldar I heard the lyrical tones of Quenya.

"You are weary, Maglor son of Fëanor. Men wish to live forever, but that luxury may whittle down even the hardiest of fëar." A shadow fell over me, and I turned my eyes from the sea to see a tall man in a black cloak. He was fair of face, but his eyes were hard and cold.

I bowed. "My lord Mandos." I had long suspected this day might come, but still the Vala's coming took me by surprise.

"Twelve thousand years have passed since your exile, but still you remain here, the last of your kin upon these shores. Even your brothers were long ago admitted to my halls, though their crimes were far worse than your own. It was once a mercy to allow you life, but no longer. None understand life and death as I do. Life is a punishment, for one such as yourself. But your exile has at last expired, Maglor son of Fëanor. It is time to come home."

My home was destroyed long ago by three shining stones. The first Silmaril I see now for the first time in years, the star Eärendil glimmering on the horizon, as if beckoning me. For years I had seen the star as a reminder of all I had lost, and after that only with apathy, but now it is a beacon of light in my dark world.

"Surely after all I have done Manwë has not deemed me fit to return." The Valar have never been forgiving. What have I done to warrant their mercy? I was a traitor, a Kinslayer.

"Lord Manwë and Lady Varda shall not permit you entrance to Valinor in this lifetime, for indeed your actions have sullied you to them, but they shall not have you remain when your fëa is faded and longs to escape into nether. You are ready, Maglor. Come with me. It is time."

The Vala reached out, offering me his hand. I took it, and my skin fell away until Mandos cradled only my fëa in his arms. The shadows lengthened and bent into the shape of a boat. Mandos stepped aboard, and spoke a single command, and the shadow boat departed from the shore.

Long into the Age of Men, a boat black as midnight sailed across the Belegaer. Upon it a Vala and a Noldo stood side by side, their eyes upon Eärendil who shone in the western skies, guiding them home.

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 **Author's note**

 **This was my first try at a Silmarillion story, so I'm testing new waters here. I would like to hear what you think, so please leave a review.**


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